


Master and Commander

by ATokenATrifle



Series: Khan Writing Prompts Collection [1]
Category: Benedict Cumberbatch - Fandom, Star Trek: Into Darkness - Fandom
Genre: Dominance, F/M, Fighting, Filth, Good times, Hair-pulling, John Harrison - Freeform, Punching, Rough Sex, Smut, Submission, Training Hall, Training You, kicking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-19
Updated: 2014-09-21
Packaged: 2018-02-17 22:45:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2325899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ATokenATrifle/pseuds/ATokenATrifle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[another writing prompt based on my previous work Glass Prisons]</p><p>Scenes taking place within a training hall environment previously mentioned in Glass Prisons.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Training Hall

The Training Hall; much like a gymnasium it’s long and narrow. The walls are black and padded, and the floor is made of a softer material, perhaps to cushion impact. All manner of weapons line the walls and you take this in as you stand waiting, making mental notes as you try to settle your stomach and await your orders.

He stalks his way from one side of the room to the other, the six of you are lined up to meet him, and to train with him. One of you will become his Lieutenant Commander, second in charge of his ship. He stops in front of each of you, standing there in standard issue uniform, black pants, black boots, black top and a black hooded jumper.

He stops in front of each of you and looks; five men and one woman, you. You’ve blistered through the training, having graduated from Starfleet Academy prior to defecting to Harrison’s team. You’re strong, you’re tough, you can fight, and you know you have what it takes. After extensive testing, you have been invited to the Training Hall to go one against one with him; Commander John Harrison. He is something not of this world, superhuman, super fast, a warrior’s mind and seemingly indestructible. You've studied him from afar for a while now and today is your chance.

Stopping at you, he looks you up and down. His eyes are a fierce, piercing blue. His face is solid and set, small muscles moving as his jaw tenses and relaxes over again, and his skin is a pale alabaster, in stark contrast to his jet black hair. Quickly and before you have a chance to react, his hand snaps up and pulls your hood off of your head, revealing your hair in a loose, dark ginger plait. You don’t react; you don’t want to. _Do not show weakness_ , you tell yourself.

The corner of his mouth twitches into a smile and his eyes inspect yours, the both of you knowing instantly that this will be a challenge, and a great fun.

“My, my,” he mutters, “Very well, then,”

Savoring the moment, his head turns slowly from yours and he glides back to the first combatant. Any one of you could end up dead at a moments’ notice, such is his speed and strength. You are not like him, though, you’re a human. A plain old regulation human being and he is the product of the Eugenics War, which took place 300 years prior in the 1990’s. This man, this superhuman has been around to see generations of your family die before you, and will probably be around long after you’re gone.

He makes easy work of the first four; they can’t keep up with him and soon either give up or lay broken on the floor. You hate the waiting game. Much like giving presentations at school, back on Earth, you’d much rather go first and get it out of the way, but today he’s making you wait. Nerves wrack you by the time he stalks his way over to you and tilts his head in your direction.

“You,” his mouth closes into an ‘O’ shape, “How well do you follow directive?” he’s circling you now, looking you up and down, assessing you.

“Very well, sir,” you answer.

He moves to your left side, hardly visible within your peripheral vision and leans into your ear, “Finish him,”

Without hesitation you remove your hooded jumper and move within the arena marked out on the floor. Finish him? He expected you to kill someone? You would think that insane for anyone else, but not for him. He is about winning at all costs and, if you want this job then you need to be prepared to break a few eggs for your omelette, as it were.

Your combatant looks frightened as you stalk directly over to him. You’ve trained against him before, so he knows you’re capable. Head down, eyes pointed directly at him, your hands clenching and unclenching into fists as you walk over he suddenly bolts to the other side of the room. You soon realise why; you’re being stalked as well, Commander Harrison on your tail. However, he’s not coming for you; in fact, he’s watching you, studying you.

Caught up to your opponent, you engage in hand to hand manoeuvres. You block him successfully a number of times, hands, arms, fists meeting, adrenaline pumping constantly. Your breathing is heavy and he’s already been weakened by a terse fight with Commander Harrison. A short, sharp punch and he steps back, clutching at his face, crimson pouring between his fingers and down his front.

“Now!” Commander Harrison calls from behind you.

He knows what’s coming and his eyes are wide and full of fear, the whites on clear display. He shakes his head in fear and your gut sinks at what’s coming, but you follow your directive and launch yourself at him. His hands are flailing and he grabs at your hair; your one weakness. You should have chosen a more appropriate style.

You’re on your knees in front of him, his last grasp chance at life. Your hair is around his fist and he pulls tightly, your teeth gritted and bared, a snarl emitting from the bottom of your throat. At first, you clutch at his fist, the pain searing through your scalp as his brings you down to the floor in front of him. You’re aware of Harrison close by, watching your every reaction.

Letting go of his fist, you swing your legs out from under you and kick at both of his knee caps. The relief on your head and hair is instant as he topples backwards. Quick thinking, you grasp at his right leg, pulling it out from underneath him with a barbaric yawp at your exertions. You’re almost in the rear corner of the room by now and he falls to ground in front of you. You scrambled over to him, pulling him up onto his knees by his hair. You have one hand grasping at handfuls of his dark curls and one elbow wrapped tightly around his neck, constricting his airways.

He’s gasping and flailing about and you watch as Harrison walks over toward the two of you, his face not giving anything away. He stops a mere five feet away from the two of you and he awaits your next move. He’s told you to finish him, so you reach under his chin, ready to break his neck. Your grip secure, hand tight, face furrowed, heart pounding through your chest as he begs for mercy. Everyone else has lived through this, four other bodies sitting slumped, injured against the side wall being tended to by ship doctors.

Harrison eyes you off, waiting for you to move, watching your knuckles whiten, listening to the gurgling gasps for help beneath you.

“Stop!” he demands and immediately you release your captor from his choke-hold.

Spluttered thank-yous can be heard as he struggles for his way back towards your other colleagues. Your eyes wander for a moment to watch this happen. A moment is all he needs, and Harrison is standing directly in front of you; his movements fast, silent, and plotted out well before you've had a chance to process what it is that needs to happen.

You’re eye to eye and you can hear him breathing, even over your own heaving breaths, your heart rate slowly returning to normal, blood rushing through your ears. You feel a trickle against your cheek; a recognizable sting tells you there’s at least a minor injury. You don’t react and he smiles a dry, sardonic smile, lips curling almost into an oddly formed triangle before falling back into a smirk. His hand reaches up and wipes blood from your face.

He inspects your blood on his fingers before smearing his hand on the leg of his pants. The whole time your gaze does not leave him, whether it’s his eyes or his face in general. His face moves back to you and he opens his mouth to speak.

“Now,” his voice purrs, “Shall we begin?”


	2. Fight For Life

You stand before him, puffing and panting, and quickly grab at your hair, securing it properly behind you. Without warning he had a hand around your throat and you’re up against the wall, up off the ground, and struggling for breath. 

“I could crush you right now,” he’s holding you at arms’ length and your legs kick out underneath you. 

“So why haven’t you?” you spit, “Harm one of your family? Not quite your style,” 

His reaction to your retort is quick, and you’re dropped back down onto the floor, your knees giving way underneath you. With that out of the way you quickly ascertain that he’s not going to kill you, just as he did not allow you to kill your opponent only moments earlier. You also know that whatever you do to him is probably not going to injure nor kill him. Keeping that in mind, you stand back up, toe to toe with Harrison.

How you’re going to work this one around, you have no idea. After all, this man has strength the likes of which you've never seen. The only way around this is with your brain; a game of strategy, chess if you may. You’re still both standing there, immovable. A thought crosses your mind, and immediately you snap the fingers on your left hand. 

His eyes dart to the source of the noise and you rattle of a quick shot, taking him unawares with a punch that connects near his left eye. That allows you the tiny moment you need to run, and run you do. He’s been keeping you down this end of the hall, away from weaponry, and that’s the first place you’re heading. 

Quick does not even begin to describe him and he’s after you in the blink of an eye. Crossing to the other side of the room, you use a bench as leverage and scramble up onto a storage shelf, pulling your legs up quickly behind you. You crawl across, your eyes angry and resolve strong as he watches you struggle like a cat swatting and the weapons below the shelf. 

Pure purpose sees him walk directly over the shelf you’re on. Reaching his hands up, you swing out with a knee and then a foot. Your knee connects with his jaw and your foot tries to push him away but he has you in a stronghold, pulling you off the shelf by your foot. Your fingers grasp at the shelf below you, hooking onto a stun gun of sorts. 

He’s holding you out in front of everyone by your ankle. 

“First weakness,” he muses, “Your hair,”

You grunt, trying desperately to get a handle of this gun, wondering whether it will cause him any harm; probably not. 

“Second, your belt,” his spare fist hooks underneath the belt around your waist and he throws you like a bag of cement against the wall. 

You almost sound like the air leaving a bag of cement as you land with a thud on the floor. He’s already walking back over to you, his strode long, quick, and purposeful. Get up, get up, get up, you tell yourself as you scramble to your feet, stun gun aimed directly at him. 

“And what’s the third?” you try and ready the gun to fire. 

“The weapons are fake,” his wry smile is back again. 

“Of course they would be,” you return his smile, tossing the weapon aside, “Set me up to see which way I run first,” 

“Correct,” 

A dance begins, the both of you encircling each other, watching, but also using it as a chance to regain breath. You’re grateful for the moment it gives you but not entirely as you start to feel the aches and stings that are encroaching on your body. All part of his plan perhaps? Sure, he won’t kill you, but he’ll make you feel at least part way dead by the time he’s done with you. 

He operates around your fear, so resolve to give him none when he starts his approach to you again. Instead of running in the opposite direction you move in towards him, matching his pace and stance. If you were deer, you’d be locking antlers any time now. A fist flies up and you block it, again, and again, but are not successful in making contact with his skin again. 

Now he’s fighting you as if he were human, hand to hand combat. He’s worked out your brain and you his, and now it’s time for the physical. Just one slip and his fist connects with your stomach, sending you lurching back into the padded wall. 

“Jesus,” it’s the first sign of weakness you give him, but you can’t help it, you've been winded. 

“Not quite,” he responds with grin and closes in on you yet again. 

He grabs a fist full of your shirt and picks you up off the ground, your eyes not leaving his for a second. You know you have strength in your body, so you take a solid grip on his wrist with both your hands. He’s looking back towards the bench of your injured colleagues, and they watch on horrified. 

Teeth clenched, deep breath in and you swing your legs. The wall and his fist for support and one foot connects with his chin, the other with his cheek. You've done it. Immediately his fist relents and he stumbles back before you swing out again and kick a leg out from underneath him. 

You have him; he’s on his knees, on the floor. His weakness is his crew, and you've just come to that. You've startled him and quickly lunge at his back, your elbow around his throat and your hand splayed across his right cheek, thumbnail digging into his left cheek, already grazed from your assault. 

You’re in close, your right cheek pressed against his left, yet he’s not struggling. You have your legs crouched, resting atop his calves and his arms are dropped to his  
side. 

“Now, Commander,” you growl at him, “Shall I end you now?”

“Is that what you want?” his words struggle into the air due to the tight grip you have around his throat, still. 

“It doesn't matter what I want,” 

“Well, you could,” he suggests, “But what good is a Lieutenant Commander without her Commander,” 

You've done it. The job is yours.


	3. Terms of Employment

You stand slowly and still, he doesn't move. Your booted foot in his back with an almighty heave and you push him face first into the floor. You move back and wait for him to jump up and attack you, you’re sure as hell expecting that to happen, but still you stand your ground.

He pushes himself up from the floor slowly; all muscles and sleek design, a machine. He turns to face you and you can see the damage you've done, a graze on his cheek and a deep pinch mark where your nail previously bit into his skin.

John extends a hand for you to shake, and you think nothing more of it, so you extend yours in your own extension of friendship. Warm and solid, his hand wraps around yours and before you have time to think he’s yanked you into him. You’re standing toe to toe, nose to nose, his wild eyes and a slight frown between them the only thing you can see.

“From now on, this is about what I want, do you understand?”

“Of course,” you answer; there is no other answer, you’re well aware of what you’re here for.

“Now, will you give me what I want?” his head moves slowly, tilting off to his right, and your eyes follow his.

“Yes, sir,”

He moves quickly to the other end of the hall, taking two poles from the wall. They look like old broom handles as he throws one and you and starts another assault, one that you’re not ready for. You’re exhausted but fight back as he comes as you, blocking him quickly, over and over, and over again. You struggle to keep up and he knows this; this is where he enjoys making you work.

An almighty swing of his arm and you feel the pain and the hot sting of the pole across the back of your legs. You cry out and hit the cushioning of the floor, but scramble up when you see him reach out to pull you up by your shirt. A quick glance to your surrounding and the hall is empty. Nothing to lose, your fingers grab wildly for your only weapon, the wooden pole, and you take a swing.

It collects him around the back of his leg. You grab the other end and pull it towards yourself, sending him toppling backwards, landing on outstretched palms.  
Renewed vigor, you fly at him. He’s already rolled back onto his front, but you tear at him and reef him back onto his back. Finally, he’s showing signs of exhaustion, and it makes it easy for you to pin his hands above his head with one knee and shove the other in his throat.

Everything burns; your skin, your bones, your lungs, and you’re heaving, trying to get more oxygen into you. He’s not quite the same, his breathing is heavy but not as much as yours and you can’t understand why he hasn't tried to throw you off of him yet, his head pinned precariously between your knees.

“I’d heard you were good, but I didn't expect that,” he’s looking up at you with an amused smile.

“I am good, I am better,” you puff.

You've taken his words in the good humor they were intended, and you relax off of him. You sit on the floor, resting back on the palms of your hands. He sits up and looks at you momentarily before crawling across the floor to you. You’re too exhausted to care now, and you’re not scared of him in the least; you’ve come this far today and you’re still alive so it’s not like he’s going to kill you now.

His right hand parts your legs and you watch as he helps himself to the space between your legs, a hand either side of you. He’s studying your face and your eyes and you watch him straight back, unsure of what he wants.

“You’re strong,” he mutters, “Fierce,”

“And dog tired,” you muse, smoothing hair out of your face, “Does that hurt?” you point to the injuries you’ve caused.

“Not nearly enough,” he teases.

Fist balled, you swing up from behind you and punch him, splitting his lip. He doesn't even flinch, grabbing your hair in a fist and pulling you down into the mat.

Everything starts to blur; he’s above you, on top of you, his weight resting on you, not in the least bit offensive, and he’s still got your hair wrapped around his fist. He uses it for leverage and pulls your head back to expose your neck to him.

He bites the nook of your neck hard enough that you’re sure it’ll leave a mark; not that you care, of course, and he follows up with a kiss. Pleasure and pain, all at once. You reach your hands back to try and pull him away from your hair but it doesn't work, and soon he has both your hands held behind your back.

You can’t help but laugh at the situation, and a small chuckle escapes your lips. He understands the humor you've seen in it, too, and returns your chuckle with a knowing smile.

“Problem, Lieutenant Commander?” he’s directly above you now.

“None, sir,” you answer, “Now, are you going to give me what I want?”

“As you wish,”

He’s up on his knees, pulling at your boots, the buckle proving difficult to manoeuvre and release, and he’s getting frustrated. You sit up to help him and he growls and pushes you back down onto the ground. His frustration is a turn on; so used to getting everything he wants, when he wants it yet, this time, the clasp of a buckle is in his way.

No room for delicacy or romance as he tears your boots from your feet, buckles popping under the pressure of his hands. Your pants are nearly torn from you as well, but they’re lucky they have more give in them than the boots, and before you know it you’re bereft of half your clothing and he’s on top of you once again.

Your hands fumble for the clasp on his pants and he smiles at your perceived clumsiness.

“I thought you were better?” his voice teases.

“Oh, I am,” you yank the fabric apart at the zipper, “But I’m afraid you’ll need new pants,”

Your next move surprises him, using your feet to push his pants down from his hips, only so much as you both need to expose him, and exposed he is. You take his cock in your hand and a small groan escapes his throat, lips parted and eyes shut. He’s been in control of the situation all afternoon but now the tables have turned; you have every ability to turn this situation on its head. The only problem with that is you don’t actually want to.

Using your hand, with a firm grip around him, you guide him towards your center. A sharp shove takes your breath away and he’s inside you, sending a shock through you and leaving you gasping. Not entirely surprised, but still slightly shocked at what your body is now accommodating; he’s thick as well as long, but that’s no shock.

You look up at him and you've got one hand with a firm grip on a bicep, taught, smooth and toned, and the other hand gripping his waist, holding him to you, connected like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. If this is what your terms as Lieutenant Commander is going to be like it’s something you could certainly get used to obliging as it were.

His movements start, slowly at first, ensuring you’re capable of taking him before his movements become quicker, more desperate and brutish. He’s fucking you into the floor beneath you and you can’t think of anything you’d rather be doing right now. Your joints ache from the work out you received prior to this, but that’s okay.

You pull his head down towards you and demand a kiss; his lips surprisingly soft and warm, but his kisses are desperate. You’re moving together perfectly, a team in more ways than one now and the only sounds being emitted are guttural grunts and groans as he drives himself into you constantly.

You shout his name as you come, body gripping him tightly, within you and around you and you can feel him pulse and throb as he finds his release shortly after yours. Puffing, panting, and heaving, you both watch each other momentarily; the cut you left on his lips still red raw, grazes on his cheek, and you covered in red marks soon to become bruises. He’s brutal, and he’s just brought you to a screaming pile on the floor of the gymnasium.

He stands up and refastens his pants but you can hardly move; you’re jelly, or putty in his hands which is what he wants. He tosses your pants and boots back at you before walking away.

“Wash up, Lieutenant Commander, training begins in an hour,”


End file.
